The Costume Ball
by AlphaMonkey
Summary: Dresses with ruffles. Frilly silk tresses. Jewel-encrusted tiaras. And the dynamic duo of Alistair and the Lady Amell dodging drunken, foppish Ferelden nobles. The perils of high society chronicled here for your perusal.


"Where's the rest of it?"

Leliana slipped a tiara onto her head.

"NO."

"But you look -adorable.-"

"It's one syllable and two letters, Leliana. N. O. NO."

"Harper, you can't attend an event like this improperly attired."

"And what's wrong with my mage robes?"

The red-haired bard put her hand to her sternum as if she were going to swoon. Orlesians: so melodramatic. "They're… -robes!- That's what's wrong with them. All that heavy cloth… baggy around the hips and waist. Doesn't it feel so confining?"

"Well, no, actually, I rather like it. The Circle Tower gets cold a lot, and the robes are rather warm, especially with those fur-lined cuffs that you can slip your hands into-"

Leliana practically gagged. "Oh, Maker- don't even get me started on all the fur. What do you people -do,- slaughter a den of bears for all that fur?"

"I'm starting to take offense, here."

"I'm just saying that… mage fashions in Ferelden leave a lot to be desired."

"Right. Because Orlesians have the best eye when it comes to style." Harper looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Aside from the gem-encrusted tiara (which she had to admit sparkled enticingly) she wore a brief (very) silk… sheath. It was a bright red – one that matched her hair in fact – and was held up by a pair of ridiculously tiny straps that dangled from her shoulders. The neckline plunged to somewhere south of the Kocari Wilds, and in back, there was absolutely nothing keeping the wide expanse of bare skin above her waist from full view.

She tugged at the hem, pulling it down as far as it would go. It stopped at the tops of her thighs. Just barely.

"Now really – enough joking – where is the rest of it?"

Leliana snickered at the mage's scarlet cheeks and the hapless way she shifted from foot to foot. "Oh, all right," she relented, turning and opening up the wardrobe behind her. She reached inside and retrieved a pair of impeccably crafted strappy sandals and bent down to help Harper buckle them on, winding the bands around the blushing mage's calves, all the way up to her knee. "There. All finished."

"Sleep lightly, Leliana," Harper said to her through grit teeth.

* * *

><p>It always amazed her how people could find reason to celebrate even in the most troubling of times. There was a Blight on, for Andraste's sake – Darkspawn were putting Ferelden to the torch acre by acre, and instead of doing something useful (Arl Eamon had strongly "encouraged" her to postpone her journey to the Brecilian Forest,) here she was in Denerim, dressed in barely enough cloth to wipe her nose with, and attending a banquet held by some noble she'd never met nor ever cared to.<p>

"Such is politics," the Arl had said to her when she'd demanded an explanation as to why this nonsense was worth her time. "Loghain has far too much of the nobility in his pocket. Unless you can win some of them over to your side, you'll have no chance at the Landsmeet. This is an opportunity to start getting into their good graces."

She couldn't argue with that. It was sound logic. But bother it all, why, in this case, did sound logic have to come clad in such a flimsy silk shift? She'd seen courtesans at the Pearl with outfits less scandalous than this.

"Now remember what I told you…" Leliana said, gently nudging her with an elbow as the two of them walked through the door and began to mingle with the other guests.

Harper sighed. "What's wrong with the way I walk?"

"It's so -purposeful.- Businesslike. You always look like you have somewhere to go or somewhere to be."

"Because I -do- have somewhere to be."

"Not tonight you don't. Tonight, you have nothing on your mind but enjoying yourself. And you are going to walk like it. Now come. More sway in your hips. Arch your back. Those are your breasts. Be proud of them."

"Maker's Breath, I feel ridiculous."

* * *

><p>"I am so sorry about this, Alistair."<p>

He was dressed in alternating red and green, the different colors arranged in squares that ran the length of his jerkin and elongated into stripes that ran down the tights he wore on his legs. Little ankle-height boots adorned his feet, and atop his head he bore a preposterous looking crown made of felt, whose peaks flopped this way and that. At the point of each one jangled a little bell. The whole contraption rested so low over his brow that a couple of the bells were constantly falling across his eyes, making it difficult for him to see anything. He'd long since stopped bothering to brush them aside. "Oh, that's quite all right. If I had any dignity left, this would be extremely embarrassing."

"Is everyone else here?"

He nodded. "Everyone who didn't threaten me with death or maiming when I told them about this little soiree, yes."

She chuckled. "So no Oghren, no Morrigan, and no Sten."

He sighed. "Oh, the horrid little dwarf's here. Just follow the stench. It's a lot like the Orlesian cheeses they're serving, but a little riper."

"He actually showed? This doesn't exactly seem like his type of get-together."

"Of course it is. There's free food and free drink. Not to mention the er… ahem… wenches."

"Your point is well taken." She shook her head. "How did everyone react to the news this would be a -costume- ball?"

"About what you'd expect. There was some crying, a few temper tantrums. But once I got over the initial shock, well, here I am."

She laughed again. "You're handling it well."

"Am I? I think that's just the three glasses of Antivan wine I've had. You should try some. It only burns a little when it goes down." He let out a derisive little snort. "And besides, maybe it's the Maker's will that this was the only thing the costuming shop had left that would fit me." He sighed in mild exasperation and tugged at his jester's tunic. "The Arl always used to say I'd end up like this. Anyway, speaking of costumes, I saw Leliana laughing like a hyena when she got back from her little shopping trip."

Harper felt her teeth grind together so firmly her jaw started to hurt. "Yes."

"What did she-"

"Take that silly hat off and -look,- Alistair." She reached out and peeled the cap off his head, and for the first time, he managed to get a good look at her.

Harper Amell was a tall woman. Tall and beautiful. Tall and beautiful and very few people knew it because she herself was completely oblivious to the fact. It didn't help that she was a mage by trade, and life in the Circle Tower meant that she spent most of her time in bulky, unflattering mage robes. It didn't help that she was a mage by trade, and thus spent most of her time with her nose in some book, studying ancient arcane formulas, or poring over manuscripts written in long dead languages. It didn't help that she was a mage by trade, and that her opportunities for normal social interaction were limited to the extremely closeted community of fellow mages and templars, the former of whom were almost exclusively far too absorbed in their own research and advancement to get bogged down in such trivialities as -dating,- and the latter of whom were expressly forbidden from entertaining such thoughts.

It therefore came as a complete surprise to everyone and sundry that Harper was, when one got her out of those flame-cursed mage robes, a -woman.- A woman who, at this very moment, was showing off quite a bit of lean, lithe leg.

"Of all the things she could have chosen, this is the. Worst. Possible. Thing." The mage sighed heavily, and while she had never been the most… generously… endowed, with the neckline of her "dress" being what it was, it hardly mattered.

Alistair gulped. "Yes. Positively -dreadful.-"

"Are you feeling all right? You look a little piqued. Should I find Wynne?"

"NO," he replied far too quickly. So quickly in fact, that she actually jerked back a little. "Um… that is… this costume is just… well, the tunic's made of wool, and it's… it's a little warm, is all… don't worry, I'll… I'll be fine."

It was the worst lie in all of Thedas, but she didn't notice a single thing amiss. "Hrm. If you're sure. But you should maybe have a glass of water. You're a little flushed."

He was just about to reply to that, but a raucous clattering drowned out whatever it was he was going to say. They both turned their heads to find a man dressed in obscenely ornate ceremonial armor walking past. The insignia and the like painted across the pauldrons, as well as the gaudy tabard he wore across his chest marked the costume as that of an Orlesian chevalier.

Harper chuckled at the sheer amount of work that had gone into the costume, then realized that the only part of the man not covered up was his face, and, more importantly, it was a face she recognized. She waved at him, and he began to (stiffly) make his way over to them. "Hello, Templar Cullen."

He smiled at her, but it was clearly the kind of polite, blank smile that one put on when one had absolutely no idea who they were talking to and were stalling for time while they desperately tried to put a name with a face. "I'm sorry, Serah, do… do I know you?"

Harper giggled. That was another thing that the normally very bookish mage didn't do very often, Alistair noted to himself. He found that laugh very… alluring. Laden with girlish charm, mostly, but with just that faint hint of a more mature smokiness lingering beneath.

She touched her fingers to her breastbone, suddenly all demure once again. "Harper. Harper Amell."

Cullen's eyes widened in complete surprise. "Oh. OH. By the Maker- I… I didn't recognize you with… with your hair like that, and the- I…" His eyes wandered. (To his credit, only briefly, and she didn't seem to notice.) "Well, I… forgive me… er… ahem…"

She waved a slim, pale hand in a friendly, reassuring gesture. "It's quite all right. I…" Her cheeks took on a rosy little red hue. "I feel rather foolish dressed like this, to tell you the truth…"

"No, not at all, it's… it's really quite fetching."

She blushed harder.

"I… I mean, that is… you look extraordinary." He awkwardly cleared his throat. "Erm… have you tried the cheese plate?" He jerked a thumb back towards the buffet table. The gesture made his armor clank like a wagon full of swords tumbling down the side of a mountain.

"Um. No. Good?"

"Exquisite."

"Perhaps I'll look into it. If you two will excuse me." She smiled graciously at the both of them, did her best to bow without… exposing anything, and began to make her way to the buffet table. About halfway there, she remembered Leliana's advice and started walking like she had nowhere to go even though she actually did have somewhere to go. Her normal "purposeful stride" became a "casual sashay" and Alistair cast a sidelong glance at the templar – saw the other man's jaw drop.

"I'm going to be -king,- you know."


End file.
